


Unhinged

by Elisexyz



Series: Unsafe [2]
Category: Lost in Space (TV 2018)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: In hindsight, it was better when she couldn’t sleep at all.
Relationships: John Robinson/Maureen Robinson
Series: Unsafe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601227
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	Unhinged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theonenamedafterahat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/gifts).



> So. This got longer than I expected LOL. I really hope you will enjoy it, thank you for the great prompt <3  
>    
>  This is a follow-up to the previous fic in this series, I think it's best to have read that first, for context. The prompt was basically Maureen having nightmares about John dying/dead, kick-started by her discovery of his injuries. Enjoy!

The first night, she ends up not sleeping.

“Feeling better now?” John asks, gently, when they _finally_ can go back to their room with a few more guarantees that there is nothing life-threateningly wrong with him, _somehow_ , and as he smiles she can’t find it in her to tell the truth.

“ _Very_ ,” she stresses, twisting her lips in the biggest smile she can muster and immediately hiding it by laying a kiss on his temple.

When they lay down, though her mind is no longer roaming with thoughts of escape plans and undying curiosity for an unexplored alien planet, she can’t seem to relax, not with her ears still so full of all of Judy’s questions, of all the possible problems that she wanted to rule out before she felt that she could safely tell them not to worry and, _god_ , all those bruises—

She is lying on her side, John’s back against her chest and one hand playing with his hair, because it tends to relax her just as much as it does him, but she can’t seem to let herself go.

“You’re not gonna get up and start working, right?” he gets out at some point, the words blending together just a bit, the way they do when he’s already half-way asleep.

“No,” she says, quietly. “I’m staying.”

If only to make sure that nothing bad happens.

He hums to let her know that he heard, but he soon seems to fall asleep, slumping a little more on himself as his breathing grows heavier and louder. If he were snoring, she’d at least have a reason why she keeps lying there, fingers still through his hair and eyes shot open in the dark, seeing nothing but bruises, bruises and bruises.

She could swear she heard him grunt in pain, a few times, but when she checked he always seemed to be blissfully asleep.

She stays alert, just in case.

The first time that she falls asleep after crash-landing on the water planet, as the kids have immediately baptized it, it doesn’t work out all too well.

She comes to bed later than John, who has apparently decided that he should concede himself as much rest as he can get, now that they don’t appear to be in any immediate danger – which historically can only last so long, so yeah, she gets his reasoning –, but he still stirs when she slips under the covers.

“It’s just me, go back to sleep,” she assures, squeezing his arm before getting settled.

“Uhm.” He tugs at her sleeve. “C’me here,” he mutters, sleepily, followed by a weak attempt at pulling her down.

She lets him, a smile bubbling at her lips as she begins to get settled against his chest. She has barely laid any weight on him when she _remembers_.

“Is this okay?” she asks, a little too frantic, pushing herself up. “Doesn’t it hurt?” Judy tended to him, he should be feeling better already, but she certainly can’t trust him to complain if that weren’t the case, can she?

“No, no, it’s fine,” he assures, after a moment or two of confusion. “Promise.”

She bites her bottom lip, considering him for a few moments before conceding to herself that, well, this was _his_ idea. He probably wouldn’t have chosen that exact position if it were particularly painful, and she is going to pay attention to any signs of distress.

She lays back down, John’s arm immediately giving her a squeeze of approval, and she closes her eyes, finding some comfort in the steady heartbeat against her ear.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, not even _attempting_ to, she just feels something tugging at her head, as if to pull it down, to keep her eyes closed—there are flashes of John’s face, twisted in a pained grimace, bones _cracking_ sickeningly under her, and she knows that she should move, _stop_ it, but instead she keeps _pushing_ and she can hear him _screaming_ —

She comes to with a sharp intake of air, John’s arm suddenly all too heavy over her and silence surrounding her.

He’s asleep.

Her breathing ragged and her heart racing, she pulls away from him, like she just got burned – or more like _she_ just burned _him_ –, settling on her own pillow, still facing his direction and gathering his hand into both of hers, pulling it to her chest as she tries to breathe through the lingering panic.

His chest keeps rising and falling, rising and falling, and eventually she calms down enough to get a few more hours of sleep, thankfully devoid of any dreams.

“Haven’t you been working too much?” John asks, no later than day four, trying to be discreet and questioning her only when none of the kids nor Don are within hearing range.

“Just trying to get us away from here,” she offers, with a smile and full knowledge that she should only be thankful that she has something to do, something for her brain to chew on so that it might stop reminiscing about John, dead or dying or both. It hasn’t been working out too well so far, but she’s always been good at getting absorbed by her work. She just needs to try harder.

“Well, maybe you should give yourself a bit of a break,” he suggests, a note of reprimand in his voice. “Nothing is trying to kill us here, so just—just take it easy, yeah?”

She smiles wider, and that night she still goes to bed after him, to get the few necessary hours not to collapse. He probably isn’t surprised.

There’s no time. There’s never any goddamn _time_.

She runs, holding the key to solving everything in her hand, her fingers hurting with the force of the hold, and she can feel the clock ticking in her head, in synchrony with her throbbing heart, as her lungs burn and she just knows that she needs to _get_ there, she needs to tell John, he can’t do this without—

She’s lying flat on her back, her breath cut short and darkness around her.

“No, no no no—”

She needs to push herself up, to keep going, she needs to—dirt starts falling all over her, prompting her to look up, to see the light and a figure standing over, looming at enough of a distance to let Maureen realize that she’s lying in a _hole_.

Smith’s grin is wide and absurdly friendly, even as she throws more dirt on her legs, all at once, enough that Maureen knows for certain that she won’t move anymore.

“No, wait, no—”

He can’t do this without her. She needs to go, she—

“I’m just honouring your wishes!” Smith chimes in, happy as a child on Christmas morning. “You are very welcome, my dear!”

Maureen tosses and turns, she tries to break free by sheer force of will because that’s not _true_ , she doesn’t _want_ this, she wants to save him, she _needs_ to—

Something – someone – explodes, making everything tremble and something inside Maureen break in half. She can only scream.

John is there when she wakes up, lying motionless, asleep – not dead –, whole – not torn to pieces –, so thankfully _close_ —she almost wakes him up.

Instead, she pushes herself up, the world shifting a little around her when her feet land on the floor, and she decides to take a shower, because she’s covered in sweat and some hot water might help her work herself out of that state of distress.

There’s no need to make him worry.

“Do you need anything?” John asks, pocking his head in the garage.

A shiver of irritation runs through her when she’s forced to tear her eyes off the alien engine, though it’s probably just because it serves as a reminder that she’s been at it for ages without accomplishing much of anything.

“A coffee,” she says, automatically. “Please,” she adds, a moment too late, with a companion smile to not look like a complete asshole.

John stares at her, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. “How about, uh, some tea? Something to help you relax, maybe get some sleep?”

“I’ll sleep as soon as I’m done here.”

He raises his eyebrows, pretty sceptical, because she has shown no sign of being anywhere nearly _done_ , and he might not know what exactly she’s trying to accomplish, but he knows that she’s doing a terrible job at it.

It’s a justified reaction.

Still.

“Look, I’m trying my best here,” she snaps, defensively.

“I know,” John immediately assures, stepping in. “I _know_ , I can see that—that’s my point, though, you’ve been burning the candle at both ends, so maybe what you need is some real _rest_.”

Yeah, well, even if she were interested in _trying_ , she can’t see herself accomplishing that any time soon, basing on her latest experiences.

“One hour,” she bargains, hoping to at least get him off her back for a while, enough to come up with a better counterargument, at least. “One hour and then I come to bed, I promise.”

He blows out some air, resigned. “Fine. Fine, one more hour.”

At least there are _some_ things that still go her way, every now and then.

She wakes up looking for John, and she doesn’t find him.

Though she can’t really grasp what it is that she was dreaming about, she can take an educated guess, assuming that this night is no different than all the others. Except—except she always woke up to a tangible reassurance that John was _there_ , alive and well, deep into sleep and close enough for her to reach if she so wished, whereas now—

“John?” she calls out, voice hoarse and a note of panic tearing through the word. “John?” It’s a little louder, but it still gets no answer.

Her heart racing and her eyes stinging, she pushes the sheets away, scrambling to get out of the room, because she needs to _see_ him, she needs _proof_ that—that whenever she wakes up, he is going to be okay. Alive. That he was never really gone.

“Joh—?” she begins to call out, only to almost collide against Don, who was obviously not looking at where he was going.

(She doesn’t remember him ever being part of her nightmares.)

“Oh, hey, you’re up,” he says. “Good mor—”

“Where’s John?” she cuts him off, barely registering his voice and not really caring for the offended frown on his face.

“Outside, with the kids,” he offers, begrudgingly. “He said to let you sleep, so…”

She takes a deep breath, managing a nod and a thank you before turning right on her heels, ignoring Don’s sarcastic ‘Oh, yeah, good talk!’ and throwing herself in her room to scramble for the radio.

When she finally, _finally_ hears his voice, her shoulders slump in relief.

“ _Hey, good morning!”_ he says, lightly. “ _Slept well?”_

She breathes in and out, a small smile appearing on her face. He’s okay. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asks, realizing too late that she dodged the question. That might worry him.

“ _Your eyebags had eyebags, Mom,”_ Judy intervenes, her tone embarrassingly reprimanding. “ _Dad made me promise not to drug your coffee, but I could tell that he was about to change his mind_.”

“Oh, was he?” she echoes, half-way between threatening and amused, mostly just really glad that things seem to be _okay_ , that John is fine and Judy and is scolding her and—and that their family is as safe as they can be while stranded on a strange planet.

With John’s energic protests filling her ears, she lays down for a moment, closing her eyes and allowing herself to be rocked into feeling alright, for a minute or two.

“Again,” she hears herself say, tone cold as ice. Judy looks alarmed. John doesn’t protest, but he does yelp in pain, and it shoots electricity right through her.

“Too late, you’re dead,” she states, judge, jury and executioner. “Again.”

John shoots a look of alarm at her, a little startled, and that only goes to state that he isn’t ready, he _needs_ to be ready, they cannot afford anything beneath perfection, this needs to _work_ —

“Again.”

Judy bites her bottom lip, alarmed, but Maureen can pay her no mind. John isn’t ready yet.

He yells, loud and clear this time, tearing through her like a knife, and something in her whimpers. Yet— “Again.”

“Maureen—”

“ _Again_.”

Will is whimpering, wide, terrified eyes fixated now on her, now on John’s rattled expression, and Penny goes to him, tears in her eyes as she lets him hide in her arms.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” Maureen says, cold and distant like it isn’t even her speaking, and John looks panicked enough that it strangles her, but she has her finger on the button and this needs to be _perfect_ —

He screams.

“You’re dead.”

John struggles on his seat, but he doesn’t have much room to move, even less to escape.

“Again.”

His screams seem to get louder each time, and Judy starts yelling at her to stop, and Will and Penny are now both crying, Judy’s trying to get her hands off the controls but why can’t she _understand_ —

(Maureen wants to stop too. She doesn’t know how.)

(If they try it enough times, he’s going to make it.)

(It’s math.)

It’s when he stops screaming, head limp and the defining sound of flatlining piercing her ears, that she finally, _finally_ manages to snap out of it. The horror dawns on her all at once, and she doesn’t know how she’s still standing.

“John?” she tries to call out, but no voice comes out, and she can only rush over, trembling hands trying to shake him awake, but it doesn’t work, it doesn’t _work_ and the beeping won’t stop and she’s so, so _sorry_ —

When she wakes up, he still isn’t moving, and it doesn’t matter that there’s silence around them, or that he’s lying down instead of sitting immobilized on a chair, John isn’t moving and she can’t see him _breathing_ because everything is a blur of tears and it’s dark and— “John?” she chokes out, but it gets drowned by a sob, her breathing rasped and her heart _throbbing_ in her ears—

 _Please, please,_ please—

She reaches out blindly, her fingers clasping around his arm tightly, and she shakes him, as hard as she can manage, choking on a sob and feeling like she’s so damn close to _suffocating_ —

“Maureen? Hey— _hey_ , what’s wrong?”

His words register a moment too late, but she can’t answer anyway, she doesn’t have the voice for it. The only thing to come out of her mouth are helpless sobs, but she does manage to crawl in his arms, face pressed against his chest as she cries and cries and _cries_ , the flow only growing stronger as he wraps his arms tightly around her.

“Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright, honey, just breathe, it’s okay—”

She thought—he wasn’t _moving_ , she had _killed_ him—that bone-chilling terror makes her shiver, and John must notice, because he squeezes her tighter.

It hurts a little, and that only reminds her of what _she_ did to him, of—of a terrible nightmare that is slowly beginning to sink back into the depths of her mind, but that was only a twisted version of something that she _actually_ subjected him to.

“I’m so sorry,” she has to choke out, with all too much difficulty because her voice keeps _breaking_ , and she knows he won’t understand, she knows he wouldn’t accept it even if he did, but she _is_ , she is so goddamn _sorry_ —

“It’s okay, there’s nothing to apologize for,” he soothes her, gently rubbing his hands up and down her back, and she has to push back the urge to start sobbing again. Her eyes fill with tears regardless of her struggle. “Everything’s alright, it was just a nightmare, yeah? You’re safe here.”

If she closes her eyes, she can still hear him screaming.

He doesn’t immediately ask.

In the morning, he brings her breakfast in bed, dotes on her even more than it is usual, and he lets her have a spot in between his arms for as long as she’ll have it, making no mention of getting out of their room anytime soon.

It’s nice, but she also isn’t completely able to relax into it, because she _knows_ that that conversation is coming and—really, it’s best to get ahead of the curve now that she’s awake, they are alone and she has the option to slip away to work on the engine for the duration of the day, if need-be.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” she prompts, trying to make it light enough to mask how shaken she still is.

(A nightmare is just a nightmare, that much is clear in the light of day, but the guilt and the horror that came with it—those have been following her around since when she was forced to _see_ what she did to him.)

John hesitates only for a moment. “Is this the reason why you have been sleeping so little?” he asks then, plain and neutral enough, though she can still hear the _why didn’t you tell me_ underneath.

She presses her lips together.

“Yes.”

She has no explanation for why she kept it from him, none that she can offer, at least, not without digging up things that are best left in the dark.

“Look,” she adds, quickly, before he can say anything. “I’ve been and I _am_ under a lot of stress.” That’s true. “It’ll go away, I just need to—I just need some time to adjust.” Hopefully. She might be overestimating her own ability to adapt, and right now it doesn’t feel like it will _ever_ stop, but—it must. She’d rather not go mad.

John wants to argue, she can tell, and she tenses up in anticipation for a fight.

Instead, he stays silent for a lot longer than it’s comfortable, eventually asking, in the softest voice: “Did it help? Last night?”

She’s taken aback for a moment, but then a small smile appears on her lips, and she nods. _That_ she can at least give to him. “Yes. Thank you.”

He takes a breath. “Okay.” He pauses, searching for her eyes. “Then—will you just promise to wake me up when you need me?”

She snorts. “Your plan of action is to make sure that _neither_ of us is sleeping?” she asks, attempting to lighten the mood a bit, but his face doesn’t really waver, and he just keeps staring at her like he’s begging her not to push him out.

“Just—please?”

She can only say yes.

She does wake him up.

It isn’t always as bad as the first time that she woke him, and most nights they get away with simply pressing themselves against each other, hugging tightly until Maureen has managed to breathe through her panic and she can get some more sleep – even _decent_ sleep, if she’s fortunate.

It helps, and she’s immensely grateful, even if all the more guilty.

(In that regard, it doesn’t help at all, and some days she fears that the nightmares might never stop.)

It’s force of desperation that drags it out of her, really.

She’s _tired_ , and she can’t properly work on the engine, and John is just so _sweet_ with her and he hasn’t even pushed for her to tell him what is going on, even if she keeps waking him to curl up against him—so she tells him. When everything else has failed, one has to resign themselves to turning to their very last resort.

“I’m sorry,” she says, tiredly, lying on her back with John’s arm around her and his shoulder as a pillow. Her face is still sticky with tears, and she’s pretty sure that _he_ ’d want nothing better than to get back to sleep. Yet, it comes out.

“It’s okay,” he immediately assures, his voice a little hoarse. “I want to help.”

Yeah, he always does. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to get him to jump off cliffs for her.

“I meant—well, yes, about keeping you awake too, but I meant before that.” She takes a breath, closing her eyes for a moment and squeezing his hand, thankful that at least she has decided to do this in the dark. “I’m sorry about the—the training—” _Torture_. “—when we were preparing you to fly the Jupiter on your own.”

It takes him a few moments to register what she said. Then, predictably, comes the protest.

“Maureen,” he begins, almost reprimanding, like she’s being more than a little unfair. “That was—”

“Necessary, I know.” _Too late, you’re dead. Again_. “Still.” She breathes. “I keep seeing it—I keep _doing_ it—” She chokes a little on the words, and that’s only confirmation that this was a terrible idea.

To make matters worse, John begins to shift from under her, pushing himself up on his elbows, searching for her eyes even though they can’t really see much of anything.

“ _That’s_ what you have been dreaming about?”

She swallows. “Mostly.”

He takes her hand, playing with the ring that she’s wearing once again, clasping her fingers into his. He takes a breath, and she _knows_ that he’s about to attempt to defend her, but she doesn’t want to hear it.

“You know,” she begins, her voice thin, unsure of what it is that she wants to say to begin with. “In that moment—all I could _see_ was the clear line between where we were and where we needed to be.” Her eyes are stinging again, but she pushes the tears back, taking a small, steadying breath. She needs to _say_ this, he needs to understand— “I was trying—so _hard_ not to see you as a _person_ then. I—I needed to worry about the math, I needed to run that test, to push and push until I was _sure_ that it was bulletproof—”

She lets out a self-deprecating laugh, finally rolling on her side, so that she can take a look at John’s face, making out a bit of his features. He’s staring intently, processing.

“What does it say about me that I could _do_ that? That Judy had to _order_ me to stop?”

John’s rebuttal comes in record time. “You were trying to save our kids’ lives.”

She snorts bitterly, maybe a bit desperately. “But you are my _husband_.”

“In that moment, none of us needed you to think like my wife, Maureen,” he says, gently, regaining a solid hold on her hand when she tries to squirrel away. “We needed you to be great at your job.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t _have_ an answer.

She remembers what was at stake, she knows, rationally, that there wasn’t much else that they could have done under the circumstances, that it was their only hope of survival—yet, she doesn’t know how to turn it _off_ , that feeling of horror and guilt at the realization that she’s _capable_ of that, under the right circumstances.

“Hey, listen,” he eventually tries again. “It wasn’t—”

“John,” she interrupts, a firm warning not to attempt to bullshit her, to say _it_ _wasn’t_ _that bad_.

He stops, rethinking his words. “It wasn’t pleasant,” he eventually says, carefully. “At all. But I promise, I’ve had much worse—”

“Not from _me_ , you haven’t.”

“ _Maureen_ —” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “Listen to me, alright? Sometimes—sometimes, in life or death situations, you have to do things that—that are going to haunt you at night. But doing whatever’s necessary to protect your kids doesn’t make you a monster, yeah?”

It doesn’t.

Yet.

“That was the only shot we thought we had. And—and you know what, I’m pretty goddamn _grateful_ that you were willing to do that, that you were strong enough to make the tough decision, for _them_ —they come first, always. I’m only sorry that it had to be you to do it.”

She snorts. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who got the short end of the stick there, John.”

He considers her for a moment, playing with her hand and eventually pulling it close to his face, leaning forward to lay a quick kiss on it, for no reason that she can phantom other that he _can_ and he’s ridiculous like that. It makes her smile, if just a bit.

“I guess it depends on how you look at it,” he concedes, eventually.

“I guess so,” she can only echo, but it doesn’t come out exactly right, and he squeezes her hand tighter, because he still hasn’t let go.

“Maureen?” he calls, gently, waiting until she’s turned back to him so he can reach out for her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “We’re okay. I promise.”

The earnest affection in his voice, the silent implication that he doesn’t _blame_ her, not even a bit, cannot scrub away the horror of her memories, but they warm her a bit.

Smiling back and nodding once, her shoulders relaxing somewhat under his touch, she lets his reassurance lull her into believing that things might be a little more okay than she thought, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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